[Celebrity Murder Case 02] - The Alfred Hitchcock Murder Case

from the firm utmost neatness. Lying in bed at 4 A.M. in the morning after the marathon session with Sir Arthur, Jennings, and Nigel Pack, Basil was too troubled to sleep. Leaving the Intelligence offices and not able to find a taxi, he had walked home, a distance of less than a mile. The fog was beginning to ease and drift out to the Thames, and from there presumably out to the sea where, as far as Basil was concerned, fogs belonged. The walk had refreshed Basil, and by the time he arrived at his very tidy flat just off upper St. Martin’s Lane, he was wide awake and annoyed. While walking, he had thought back on the meeting and had come to the conclusion it was most untidy. There were too many loose ends dangling, and Basil wanted them neatly threaded into place. To Basil, every assignment should be like a well- planned sampler, such as the perennial ‘God Bless Our Happy Home’ neatly stitched by himself (a hidden vice), which hung in his foyer.

As far as he was concerned, the sampler that represented Hitchcock, his wife, and the murders was too hastily designed. The colors of the threads were all wrong and were clashing. Over his head there hung a cloud that Basil labeled ‘The Sin of Omission.’ Information was either being withheld, or misfiled in several minds, or just untidily ignored. For example, Sir Arthur was an incredibly intelligent man, yet he never dwelt on those two unsolved murders in Munich eleven years ago. Every attempt Basil made to allude to them was waved away, yet most of the principals involved in that case were once again headliners. The Hitchcocks, Hans Meyer, Fredrick Regner. The only missing character was Rosie Wagner, who, when last heard of prior to her disappearance, had been judged to be battier than a failed movie starlet. Neatly, tidily, Basil lined up the facts as he got out of bed, put on his Sulka bathrobe, went to the kitchen, and prepared his morning tea. In Munich in 1925, Anna Grieban, script girl-informant for British Intelligence, brutally stabbed to death in the shower. Rudolf Wagner, pianist and composer, another informant for the firm, stabbed in the back at the studio, where the murderer might easily have been apprehended but nevertheless escaped de-

tection. Eleven years later, there is Regner with his strange scenario deliberately directed at the Hitchcocks, and his emissary, Martin Mueller, is stabbed to death on Hitchcock’s doorstep. The next day, the manuscript is stolen, the Hitchcocks are attacked, Mrs. Hitchcock is spirited away, and Hitchcock, while unconscious from a blow to the head, is set up to appear as the murderer of the detective, Angus McKellin.

And just a few hours ago, Sir Arthur told Jennings Alma Hitchcock was perfectly safe. How did he know? If the firm had her, why hadn’t he told either Nigel or Basil? They had been working together for over twelve years now, and to Basil’s knowledge, he had always shared all information with them, even the most highly classified, give or take an occasional omission. But now, he was in default. And that was terribly untidy.

The kettle whistled, and Basil poured the hot water into the teapot, part of a set willed him by a maiden aunt who had perished in an avalanche in Switzerland. Only her skis were recovered, and they’d been willed to his cousin Ben in Norfolk. While the tea steeped, Basil went to the window and looked out. There were the signs of a gray, somewhat reluctant dawn, which just about summed up Sir Arthur’s sudden withholding of information—gray and reluctant. Doling out that tidbit about Mrs. Hitchcock’s safety was obviously done to bring Jennings back from the explosion he appeared to be on the verge of detonating. Jennings had been very square with them. He shared everything. He withheld nothing. He was a good man to have on your team. Basil, while barely knowing him, admired him. He recognized a brother. Jennings was also fastidious, very neat, very tidy. The way he’d gone about investigating the false Lemuel Peach.

Basil poured a cup of tea and waited for the wilted leaves to settle to the bottom of the cup. And, while waiting, he became determinedly resolute. He would confront Sir Arthur and demand to know the whereabouts of Mrs. Hitchcock. After all, it was always up to him to tidy things up.

Alma was awakened from a fuzzy sleep by the sound of a cart being wheeled into the bedroom. She hadn’t heard the door unlock and propped herself up on her elbow. There they were, the unholy team, the butler who looked like a prizefighter and the maid who looked like a jail matron. For her own amusement, Alma named them Dempsey and Brunhilde. Brunhilde wheeled the cart to the center of the room while Alma wondered if she would be joined by the man with the tic. As she got out of bed and put on the negligee provided her the night before, she saw there was enough food on the cart to feed a needy family.

“I don’t eat much breakfast,” said Alma. “Is what’s-his- name joining me?”

“What’s-his-name?” asked Brunhilde as Dempsey poured tea. Her voice was a bassoon’s.

“The man who I assume is my host.”

“Oh, him. Blinky.” Blinky! Now why haven’t I thought of that? thought Alma. “He’s gone.”

“Gone? Where to?” Alma wondered if it was anything she’d said last night that had caused Blinky to defect. How dare he go when she was just getting used to him! She had even been looking forward to the possibility of breakfasting with him. He was her only familiar in this maddening situation into which she’d been caged, and as far as she was concerned, she was his responsibility. How dare he depart without so much as a “by your leave” or a “so long, honey, it’s been nice knowing you but I have to push on”?

“He’s been called away,” said Dempsey, who